


The Upside of Accident

by luxover



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ah, fuck,” Jeff says, and the smile stretches its way across his face, putting lines in the corners of his eyes and dimples in his cheeks. “I gotta deal with two of you, now?” </p>
<p>Or: An accidental dating fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Upside of Accident

**Author's Note:**

> Supposed-to-be comment!fic that got away from me. Written for the prompt [Jeff Skinner/Jordan Staal, accidental dating](http://daisysusan.livejournal.com/243396.html?thread=1172164#t1172164)
> 
> A million thanks to [mousselinegateau](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mousselinegateau/pseuds/mousselinegateau) for basically holding my hand through this.

It’s hot out in Raleigh, hotter than it has any right to be, and so Jordan’s sprawled out on the couch in Eric’s house, wearing nothing but a pair of gym shorts and a backwards Pens cap. Eric’s out running errands, and Jordan’s supposed to be looking at stuff his realtor sent over, but instead he’s just playing Halo 3 and debating making lunch. He’s not expecting anyone, so it’s a surprise when the doorbell rings. 

For a long second, Jordan doesn’t move; he doesn’t even pause his game, because it’s not his house, and so it’s not like anyone’s coming over to see him. But then he thinks that maybe it’s FedEx or something, and getting them to come back is always a hassle, and so he sits up, slides on his flip-flops and heads to the door. He scratches absentmindedly at his chest on the way and wonders if Eric has any sandwich stuff in his kitchen. 

Jordan’s moving slowly, and the deadbolt is almost impossible to figure out, so by the time he finally gets the door open, he’s not really expecting anyone to still be there. As it is, Jeff Skinner’s standing there on the other side, just patiently waiting as he messes around on his iPhone. 

Jordan doesn’t know him, but he knows _of _him.__

“Hey?” he says, and it comes out more like a question than Jordan was really going for. Jeff looks up, and when he does, his mouth quirks up into the smallest of smiles. 

“Ah, fuck,” he says, and the smile stretches its way across his face, putting lines in the corners of his eyes and dimples in his cheeks. “I gotta deal with two of you, now?” 

For a split second, Jordan doesn’t even know how to respond, but he’s been around chirping for long enough that he catches himself, deadpans back, “If you’re the welcoming committee, I’m going back to Pittsburgh.” 

Jeff laughs at that, really tips his head back and everything, and _now_ Jordan gets it; _now_ he sees what Eric meant. It wasn’t even that funny. 

“No take-backs,” Jeff says. “Is Eric around?” His eyes flick over Jordan’s shoulder and into the house, just for a second, but it’s done in the kind of way that’s unselfconscious, like he’s been here before and the inside of Eric’s house is nothing new to him. Which—it probably isn’t, if he’s comfortable just dropping by like this. 

“Nah, he’s out,” Jordan says. 

“Oh,” Jeff says, but he makes a little bit of a disappointed face, like, _Well, shit._

And Jordan—he doesn’t know why he does it, but he asks, “You want a sandwich?” 

Jeff smiles again and says, “Sure.” 

 

He spends the rest of the summer back in Thunder Bay, out on Lake Shebandowan, racing his boat against Marc’s and stealing food from Eric’s kitchen next door when he’s out riding the quads. It’s sort of exactly what he wants, during the off-season, and he spends the whole time in board shorts and a hoodie, never even puts on sneakers except for when he’s going to work out. 

“Hey, hey,” Marc says to him. They’re all out on Eric’s boat for the day, fishing and drinking some beers. “No, cast it out there.” He points in the opposite direction of where Jordan’s facing. 

“Literally no difference,” Jordan says, mostly to himself, but he does as Marc says, casts a line out over the other way, and then just because it figures, he gets a bite two seconds later. 

“I told you,” Marc says as Jordan reels the fish in. “I know this lake.” 

“Shebandowan and he are one,” Eric says loftily. “We shall call him, Man Who Communes With Fish.” 

Marc just rolls his eyes and takes the chirping, and when Jordan’s phone goes off, signaling a text message, he takes over removing the fish from the line. 

Jordan wipes his hands off on one of the towels that are lying around, and then digs in his sweatshirt pocket for his phone. There’s a text displayed on the screen, and although the number’s not one that’s saved in his contacts, he opens it anyways. 

_Not the JStaal special, but a close second,_ the message says. _This follows my diet, right?_ And attached is a photo of what has got to be the biggest chicken parmesan sandwich Jordan has ever seen. Nice to look at, but doesn’t change the fact that Jordan has no clue who the hell is texting him. 

_Who is this?_ he sends back. 

_Skinner. Sry, got your number from Jared._

And that—Jordan just sort of stares at that text for a minute, because he doesn’t know why Jeff would be texting him, or what he’s supposed to say back, or if it’s okay for him to just let the conversation die there. But then he figures that maybe he should say something, especially since they’re going to be teammates, and he was alright to hang out and play videogames with that one time. 

So Jordan types out, _Gonna have to talk with him if he’s so loose-lipped with the family secrets._

He hits send and then looks up, looks over to his brothers and how they’re baiting another hook. Marc’s sitting against the railing with a beer bottle squeezed between his knees, and Jordan is just counting down the seconds until he forgets it’s there and the beer drops. 

“This is why you should just use a lure,” Marc says, but it’s an old argument between them, and so Jordan tunes them out. 

His phone chimes again, another text from Jeff saying, _You don’t even know. My sod business is booming._

Jordan laughs out loud at that one, in part because it’s funny and in part because Jeff’s nothing like he thought, not quiet or meek or any of that, and he’s taken by surprise. 

“What’s so funny?” Eric asks, looking up, a night crawler still between his fingertips. 

“Nothing,” Jordan says. It’s not a secret or anything that he’s texting Jeff, but it’s kind of strange, seeing as they only met once and they’re not even friends. Eric’s been playing with him for a while, though, and so it feels almost like he’s stealing Eric’s friend, or something equally stupid. 

Only he forgot how fucking small the boat was, because Marc just has to stand up and lean over, bottle still held tight between his knees, in order to see over Jordan’s shoulder. 

“Skinner?” he says. “Skinner who? Jeff Skinner?” 

“Uh. Yeah,” Jordan says, and then he looks towards Eric, just to see his reaction. 

Eric looks back at him for a minute, the same look on his face that he had when Jordan lied about fingering some girl behind their local ice rink, before turning back to what he was doing and saying, “Cool. Tell him I said hey.” 

“Yeah, will do,” Jordan says, and no matter how many times he replays that conversation over in his head, he can’t help but feel like he missed something. 

 

Summer goes by pretty quick, but then the lockout happens, and so it’s ages after that before he actually meets the rest of the Canes in any sort of official capacity. Their first day of training camp is cool, though; Eric introduces him around, makes sure he gets settled. And then, because Eric is Eric, he tries to loosen everyone up by instituting a goal celebration competition when they’re cycling through shootouts at the end of practice. 

They start off easy—basic fist pumps with loud yelling, shit like that—but then Chad takes it one step further by throwing his gloves in the air, and that breaks it wide open, which leads to Boychuck doing the Conan string dance, and Ruuty riding his stick across the ice while doing a pageant wave. It’s ridiculous, but kind of nice, too, not that he’d ever admit it to Eric. 

“Fucking embarrassing from where I’m standing,” Cam yells out to them. “You all lose.” 

Jordan rolls his eyes and then knocks his shoulder against Jeff’s; Jeff’s standing in front of him in line, and he’s leaning most of his weight on his hockey stick, his chinstrap undone and his helmet pushed back a little on his head. 

“I hope you plan on impressing,” Jordan says. He’s been talking with Jeff on and off over the summer, just texting and phone call or two; they still don’t know each other that well or anything, but things are easy between them. 

“I’m gonna bring the gold home on this one,” Jeff says with a crooked smile. “Double Lutz; Cam won’t know what hit him.” 

“I don’t even know what the fuck a Double Lutz is,” Jordan says, and that makes Jeff laugh, even though he wasn’t joking. 

“Figure skating,” he explains. “It’ll be cooler than that, anyways.” He waves a hand, gestures to where Tim is using his hockey stick as a golf club, bringing one hand to shade his eyes as he mimes looking off into the distance. 

“Hard not to be,” Jordan says. “It doesn’t get much more overdone than that.” 

“Maybe if we wait long enough, we’ll get a Ziggy Palffy.” 

That shocks a laugh out of Jordan, which prompts Jeff to laugh, and they get so caught up in it that they don’t even realize that they’re out at the front of the line until Cam hollers at them. 

“Bring it, Beiber,” he yells, and Jeff lets out an _argh_ sort of sound. 

“That stopped being funny before you even started calling me that,” Jeff yells back, but he takes the puck down ice anyway, and Jordan just watches. 

 

Their season gets off to a pretty shit start, losing two in a row, but now at least they know how not to play, and they’re going to turn it around. The play the Sabres in late January, an away game that has them headed up north and back into the Buffalo cold, and they win 3-1, two points which are both promising and well-deserved. Jordan thought the plan was to wind down with a small poker night afterwards, but maybe that changed, or maybe he got his days mixed up, because when he knocks on what he thought was Jiri’s door, Jeff answers, wearing sweats and looking completely beat. 

“Poker night?” Jordan asks, with no preamble. It’s not the first time he’s mixed up room numbers. “Where is everyone?” 

“Out at some bar, I think,” Jeff tells him. “Poker’s next trip, after the Flyers. I’m just watching a movie though, if you want to hang.” 

And Jordan—he doesn’t have much going on, so he shrugs and follows Jeff into the room, throws himself down on the empty side of the mattress. _Talladega Nights_ is on the tv, and Jordan groans when he sees it. 

“You don’t get to do that,” Jeff says, flopping down on the bed next to him. 

“Do what?” 

“Criticize my movie choice,” Jeff says, but it’s in good humor. “This is a cinematic gem.” 

“You can call it that,” Jordan says, and Jeff laughs a little, but it’s a tired kind of laugh, and Jordan must be more tired than he realized, too, because he keeps slouching farther and farther down on the bed, and before he realizes it he’s being woken up by someone else knocking at the door. It startles the hell out of him, and he falls out of bed; Jeff laughs at that one, a real laugh this time, loud and unrestrained, and he’s still laughing by the time he gets the door open. 

“You haven’t seen Jordy, have you?” Eric asks, and Jordan just waves a hand out from behind the bed as he struggles to his feet. 

“M’here,” he says, readjusting the hat on his head and shuffling his way towards the door. He shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket and yawns. “Fell asleep.” 

Eric furrows his brow like he doesn’t understand English, and then looks into the room. Jordan doesn’t know what he’s looking for—liquor bottles, maybe, like Jordan would get Jeff trashed in their hotel room off of mini-fridge booze—and maybe neither does he, because then he shrugs, says, “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Nah, it’s cool,” Jordan says, because he really should get back to his own room. 

“I was gonna kick him out, anyway,” Jeff adds, and Eric just shakes his head like he’s lost for words. 

 

Poker night, when it happens, is a shit show, and Jordan loses more money than he cares to remember a lot quicker than he cares to admit. They take it to a bar for their next team celebration, though, because it’s cheaper and arguably more fun. Boychuk and Dalpe are being the best kinds of loud and obnoxious, placing bets on stupid things like what color hair the next person to walk in the door will have, and although Alex Semin speaks a bit of English, he stays quiet and just watches it all with an amused expression on his face. 

A handful of them are crammed into a booth by the time Jordan’s draining his second beer, and he looks to Eric, who’s on the outside, to tell him to grab him another beer, but Eric’s deep in conversation with Cam, gesturing wildly, their heads bent together. 

“What, on a jet ski?” Eric’s asking. “That’s crazy, you’ll flood the motor.” 

“No, _you’ll_ flood the motor,” Cam says. “ _I_ know what I’m doing.” 

Eric scoffs loudly, the kind of scoff that Jordan has personal experience with, and so he leaves the two of them alone, and instead turns to Chad, tells him to move his ass so he can get out. Jordan slides out of the booth, and just before he leaves, he turns back, grabs Jeff’s attention from where he is, pressed up against the wall and talking to Bobby. 

“Hey, Skins,” he calls out. “Want anything while I’m up?” 

“Can’t,” Jeff says, and he gestures towards himself. “Only twenty.” 

“I know,” Jordan says slowly, and he tries to convey the fact that he really did, because he’s not an idiot, but he’s not going to just hang Jeff out to dry. People bought Jordan beer all the time when he was underage; _Eric_ bought Jordan beer, and also got him arrested when he was underage. So. “That’s why I was asking.” 

“Oh,” Jeff says, and then after thinking about it, he adds, “Whatever you’re having, then, I guess.” 

“Coming right up,” Jordan says, and he heads to the bar. 

“Get me a Stella!” Eric yells after him, and Jordan just ignores him. 

He’s still kind of bitter about that arrest thing. 

 

For the most part, Jordan just fits right in with the Canes, and he’s not sure if that’s because he’s Eric’s brother or what, but it’s a nice relief either way. It keeps things light in the locker room and helps things flow on the ice, and so even though he _is_ the new guy, he doesn’t head to training feeling like it. 

He’s between sets on the bench press, lying down and staring at the ceiling, and it’s pretty quiet in the room, Boychuk and Dalpe the only other guys there, ragging on each other over who bought the chocolate syrup, and whether or not Kashi brand cookies count as healthy. He wraps his fingers around the weight bar and is about to take it off the rack and do another set when someone leans over, rests their elbows on top of it. 

“You get caught without a spotter and you’re a dead man, Staal.” 

It’s Jeff, and he’s sweaty and red-faced, clearly just off the bikes. His hair is sticking to his forehead a little, and it’s weird, looking at him upside-down. 

“Who am I gonna ask?” Jordan says, looking up at him and gesturing around, because it’s unusually dead. 

“We have this revolutionary new thing called _trainers_ here,” Jeff says, and when Jordan doesn’t say anything right away, he laughs at his own attempt at a joke. “Okay,” he says eventually, laughter still in his voice, “I’ll help you out.” 

“Alright,” Jordan says like he doesn’t care, but it’s a good idea; he shouldn’t have been lifting this much without a spotter, anyway. “I’ll hit you back.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeff says, smiling and rolling his eyes a little, and then that’s it, that’s all they really say for a while. Jordan does another eight reps, and then a third set to exhaustion, and when he finally sits up again, Chuk and Dalpe are gone. 

Ruuty walks in, though, so at least other people are still there. 

“Oh, hey,” he says. “Am I interrupting?” 

“Nah,” Jeff says with an easy smile. “Just working out.” 

“Cool,” Ruuty says, and he throws himself down onto the leg press seat. 

And then, just to be a shit, Jordan says, “That wasn’t an invitation.” Ruuty ignores him, but Jeff laughs, and so there’s that. 

 

It’s not that he _only_ hangs with Jeff, but Jeff seems to reach out to him a lot—probably because they get along, and there’s no one his age on the team—and so they play video games, go to movies, whatever. And maybe it’s a joke, because their friendship was initially based on sandwiches, but maybe not; either way, Jeff invites him out to dinner at some deli in Carrboro that has amazing pastrami. That’s how Jeff sells it, too, _Best pastrami you’ll ever have, I swear,_ but then they get there and he orders a fucking Italian sub with no peppers, and Jordan can’t let that one go. 

“You said pastrami was their thing,” he says. Their knees are knocking under the small table, and Jordan wonders why the fuck they didn’t just take a booth; it’s not that crowded. 

“You can’t tell me that’s not the best pastrami you’ve ever had,” Jeff says, his mouth full, like the ill-mannered creature he is. 

“I’m not,” Jordan says. “But you sold this place on its pastrami merits, and then you didn't get any.” 

“Oh,” Jeff says, and then once he swallows what’s in his mouth, he laughs. “Oh. I didn’t even realize.” 

“Yeah, well. You’re missing out.” 

“So gimme a bite,” Jeff says, and he starts reaching out for Jordan’s sandwich before Jordan even answers. Jordan slaps his hand away. 

“What? No. If you wanted a Reuben, you should have ordered a Reuben,” he says. 

“I’ll trade you for some of mine, though,” Jeff says, flicking his hair off his forehead.

“For what, a bite of an Italian sub with no peppers? _The peppers are the best part._ ”

Jeff just ignores him and picks up the second half of Jordan’s sandwich anyway, taking a huge bite with an obnoxious smile on his face. Jordan kicks him under the table. 

“For that, you can come help me pick out a couch,” Jordan says. 

“You don’t have a _couch_?” Jeff asks. “You’ve been living here for like three months. Where do you watch tv?” 

_At Eric’s,_ Jordan doesn’t say. Instead, he sarcastically answers, “I’ve been a little bit busy with this thing called hockey,” and doesn’t mention how he’s missing a lot more than just a couch. 

 

“You got a couch,” Eric says. He’s standing in Jordan’s living room—empty save for the couch—and is just staring at it. 

“Yeah,” Jordan says. He’s looking at the couch, too. It’s a good one. “Jeff picked it out.” 

“You got a couch,” Eric repeats slowly, “with Jeff?” 

“Yeah, I dunno,” Jordan says. “He said this was the best one, so.” 

“Right,” Eric says, and he still sounds kind of dazed, but then he sits down and makes a face like he’s surprised. “This is a good couch.” 

“It’s the best,” Jordan agrees. 

Eric runs his fingers over the leather of the armrest, and then kicks off his flip-flops, lies down on the couch to test it out, his long legs crossed at the ankle. 

“You think he’ll help me pick out a new one?” he asks, then a beat later says, “Never mind.” 

“Just ask him, dude,” Jordan says. “Don’t be weird about it.” 

Eric sits back up and then looks at him skeptically, says, “You don’t think there’s anything weird about that already? I’m an adult; I should be able to buy my own couch without the help of someone younger than _Jared._ Who, by the way still eats Frosted Flakes for breakfast, even though he says he doesn’t.” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Jordan says, but he’s smiling a little. 

“It’s true though; he hides it in his pantry behind the oatmeal.” 

“I meant to _me,_ you asshole,” Jordan says, laughing. “Insulting my choice of furniture shopping partner. Your jealousy is readily apparent.” 

Eric laughs a little, but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans back against the couch and scrutinizes Jordan for a minute. 

“He’s a good kid, though,” he says. “Jeff, I mean.” 

“I guess,” Jordan says, shrugging. And then because this whole conversation is just so bizarre, he changes it, says, “Come on, let me show you my kitchen table.” 

“Oh? You have an actual table now?” Eric says. “Did you splurge on chairs, too, or is that next year?” 

Jordan laughs under his breath but doesn’t dignify that with a response, and he doesn’t mention it when Eric takes a picture of the couch to inevitably send to Marc. 

 

“Buzz it!” 

“No!” Jeff says immediately. 

_“Buzz it!”_

“ _No._ I just want it shorter so it’s not always in my face.” 

“Right,” the hairdresser says slowly. Jeff’s in the chair, the salon cape around his shoulders, and it makes his face look really round, him just being a disembodied head. Jordan wants to laugh, and instead spins in the unused salon chair that he’s sitting in. “So I’ll leave it longer on the top, just a bit, and tight on the sides…?”

“Alright,” Jeff says. “I trust _you._ Just don’t listen to this idiot.” He motions to Jordan, the black cape rustling. 

“I’d say that I’m wounded, but my brothers have been calling me worse things for longer than I can remember,” Jordan says. The stylist had wanted to cut his hair, too, had taken one look at how it curled around his ears and out from underneath his cap and _tsk_ 'd, but Jodan put his foot down. 

The woman starts cutting Jeff’s hair, and Jordan hadn’t realized how long it really was, not until he sees it all falling to the floor. 

“Maybe this will shut Cam up, at least,” Jeff says. 

“Nah,” Jordan tells him, speaking to his reflection in the mirror. “Beiber cut his hair too, eventually.” 

Jeff laughs his usual laugh—eyes crinkling, dimples appearing, his head tilting back—and the stylist reprimands him, moves his head back to where she wants it; she doesn’t seem to have any clue who they are. 

“Fuck,” Jeff says, and then to the hairdresser, “Sorry.” He waits a minute, long enough for her to start cutting again, and says, “Maybe you can lead the charge into getting me a new nickname.” 

“Who, me?” Jordan asks, all innocent. “I’m too new; no one will listen to me, Justin.” 

Jeff’s black salon cape rustles again, and Jordan laughs, doesn’t even need to see it to know that Jeff’s flicking him off underneath it. 

 

As predicted, Cam loses his shit the next day at practice, and doesn’t let Beiber 2.0 hear the end of it. That would be entertaining—and it is, for a while—but then Jordan loses the shootout at the end, which is embarrassing, and he takes his punishment in the form of having to pick up the pucks. 

On his walk back to the locker room, though, he’s rounding a corner when he hears Eric speaking in his ridiculous captain voice. 

“You better be serious about this,” he says, and then his voice slips a little as he says, “He’s my—it’s different when you’re dating a _teammate._ ”

“Um, what?” someone says, and it’s totally Jeff, which—Jordan didn’t know he was dating anyone. He’s kind of torn between being pissed that he’s the last to find out, and surprised, because Jeff’s never fucking busy, always calling Jordan up when he’s bored. 

When Jordan finally turns the corner—when he sees them—Eric’s got Jeff backed up against the wall, and he’s not _threatening_ Jeff, but he is kind of trying to intimidate him. Jordan knows him well enough to know that, and it’s stupid, because it’s _Jeff,_ and so Jordan brings it upon himself to diffuse the situation. 

“Whaaaat?” Jordan asks when he walks up to them, dragging out the _a_. “Who’re you dating?” 

Jeff shoots him a confused look like, _I have no clue what’s even going on,_ and Eric turns to look at him, equally as confused. 

“…You?” Eric says, and then all three of them are confused. 

“What—me and Jeff?” Jordan asks, pointing between the two of them. “We’re not dating.” 

“Yeah,” Jeff agrees, although he still looks partially terrified. 

“But you text him all the time,” Eric says, like it’s a question. “And you’re always hanging out. You bought _furniture_ together.” 

“Yeah, but we’re just—” Jordan says, and then it’s weird that he can’t find the word for what they are. 

“Bros,” Jeff finishes for him. 

“Yeah,” Jordan says, backing him up, but _bros_ isn’t exactly right, either. 

“Are you sure?” Eric asks, and then he turns away from Jeff, looks right at Jordan like he’s the only one of them that matters. “Because it’s okay if you are. I was talking with Marc about it—”

“You told _Marc_?” Jordan asks. “So basically the whole family thinks we’re dating, now.” 

And that—it’s just so ridiculous, and Jordan doesn’t even know why, but it puts this weight on his chest that he doesn’t like, and that just sits there until Jeff does his thing and starts to laugh. It’s not even a hysterical laugh, just his usual laugh, the one from practice or when they’re watching Comedy Central, or that time Jordan tripped and almost landed face-first in a puddle. 

“Oh my god,” Jeff says, still laughing, his cheeks red. “The guys are never going to let you hear the end of this.” 

Only then Eric says, “Well, the guys—I mean, it wasn’t just _me._ ”

That only makes Jeff laugh harder, and then Jordan’s laughing, too, and Eric just looks at them like they’re crazy. 

 

And the weird thing is, they don’t even bring up the dating thing again, and life just goes back to normal. He still hangs with Jeff all the time, and they’ve still got hockey and traveling and all that, and so Jordan mostly just… forgets about the dating thing. 

Except that’s not true at all. He thinks about it all the time, and it’s driving him crazy. 

“I’m telling you,” Jeff whispers to him as they’re standing pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in this tiny exhibit, almost two weeks later, “this place is second only to the National Hollerin’ Contest, if you’re looking for things to do in North Carolina.” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Jordan whispers back, because the curator is _right there._ “This is a fucking Gourd Museum.” 

Jeff turns and studies him for a minute before responding, “And you say I’m uncultured.” 

“They’re _gourds,_ ” Jordan stresses, because this place is ridiculous, only then Jeff starts to smile—small at first, until he can’t hold it back—and that’s when Jordan knows he’s being fucked with. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t,” Jeff says, and there’s laughter in his voice. “I thought you loved gourds.” 

_You are the worst,_ Jordan opens his mouth to say, only then what actually comes out is, “Why _aren’t_ we dating?” And that—

He was not prepared for that. 

“What?” Jeff asks, his smile sort of frozen where it is, half slipping off his face in surprise. 

“Um,” Jordan says. “What? Nothing.” He takes off his cap and then resettles it on his head. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the door, and says, “I’m just gonna—”

“No, wait,” Jeff says, and he reaches out, grabs Jordan by the wrist. Only then because they’re not alone, he lets go, and just follows Jordan outside and back to the car, thanking the curator as they leave. 

The two of them climb into the car, and it’s awkward as fuck. Jordan drives down the backwoods road that led them there and kind of hates himself for even saying anything in the first place. 

“So,” Jeff says, finally breaking the silence. “Back there…”

“Can we just forget about it?” Jordan asks, and he doesn’t look away from the road even for a second because—he’s such a fucking idiot. It’s just that he _likes_ Jeff, and he likes hanging out with Jeff, and now that Eric’s pointed out he could also be getting off with Jeff, that’s kind of all Jordan wants. 

“We were kind of dating, though,” Jeff says, completely ignoring what Jordan asked. “I mean, Eric wasn’t wrong about that. We just didn’t—you know. Fuck, or anything.” 

“We weren’t _dating,_ ” Jordan stresses, because it doesn’t matter what kind of stuff they did; they weren’t dating. 

“We could, though,” Jeff plows on. 

“What, date?” Jordan asks. He almost can’t even follow this conversation, it’s just so unexpected, and so bizarre. 

“Fuck,” Jeff clarifies. “We’re already kind of dating.” 

“We’re _not_ —wait, you want to?” 

Jordan glances at Jeff, just for a second, and Jeff’s shrugging, his palms up, as if to say, _Kind of, I guess,_ or maybe, _I thought it obvious that I really, really do,_ but Jordan’s not really sure which. He’s also not really sure it matters. 

“Shit,” he says under his breath, and when he looks back towards the road, he has to jerk the steering wheel to keep the car from careening into a tree. “Shit,” he says again, differently this time, and even though he kind of almost just killed them, Jeff just laughs. 

Jordan likes that. 

 

Turns out, Jordan also really likes the way Jeff laughs after he comes. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jeff asks, lying boneless on the couch in Jordan’s living room, his gym shorts halfway down his thighs. He’s laughing under his breath, like he finds it really funny but just doesn’t have the energy to be any louder about it. “Who wears a baseball cap when they’re blowing someone?” 

“This office is closed to complaints,” Jordan says. “I’m not the one who came all over my brand new couch.” 

“It’s leather,” Jeff reminds him. He reaches forward, wraps his fingers around the curve of Jordan’s ear. “It’ll wipe off.” 

And that—

“ _Holy fuck,_ ” Jordan says. “We bought a couch together that can’t get come-stained; we were _dating._ ”

Jeff smiles and, tugging on Jordan’s ear, says, “As far as accidents go, it’s not the _worst_ I’ve suffered through, but—”

Jordan just punches him hard in the thigh, and tries not to laugh when Jeff does. 


End file.
